


With Good Intentions

by Anirrahn



Series: To Fell and Back [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Anxiety, Arguments, Babybones, Backstory, Character Study, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Making Up, Pre-'Canon', Protective Siblings, Time Skips, Trust, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-08 16:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10390455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anirrahn/pseuds/Anirrahn
Summary: In the distant past, Sans picks up a new skill.Nearer to the present, Papyrus joins the Royal Guard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” —Augusten Burroughs

When Papyrus hits eleven, he shoots up in height. It’s not an overnight thing, but Sans still finds his little brother going through his carefully maintained set of hand-me-downs with all the speed of a flame through a match. By the time Papyrus is thirteen, Sans speaks to him at eye-level and still knows in his soul that his ‘baby bro’ is nowhere near done with growing.

He wearily accepts that there’s no point in saving his old clothes for Papyrus anymore; they wear essentially the same sizes. They’re a little looser around his brother’s middle but, where Sans may mostly be done in terms of getting too big for his threadbare sweaters, Papyrus tugs them on and often finds them a couple of inches too short. His brother never complains—he knows full-well what lengths Sans has to go through to find them something decent enough to wear in the first place—but that doesn’t stop Sans from feeling the gnawing pit of anxiety in his soul that tells him he’s letting his only family in the whole world suffer because he’s just _that_ incompetent.

It’s not that he doesn’t work. He’s got about a hundred different, shady little part-time jobs, but none of them deign to pay him very much when he’s got no legal documentation to his personage and needs to be paid under the table in the first place. So, what he earns is about enough to keep him and his brother fed. Anything left over, if ever, is meticulously tucked away in case of an unforeseen emergency—properly fitted clothing is hardly comparable in terms of importance. For that he scrounges around at the dump. In fact, anytime he’s not at work he’s usually there, scavenging through the discards from the surface and trying to find anything still salvageable enough to use.

Papyrus is still young. By all accounts, his clothing should still have stripes. It’s symbolic; a signal of his age to the world at large and important in keeping him safe and generally out of harm’s way. Their world may be merciless, but it took a particular brand of cruelty to hurt a child and, even on the streets, there were few that would fit that profile. Putting Papyrus, as tall and grim-faced as he is, in stripes would hint at his youth and keep him protected.

Still, Sans has no gold to spare on new clothes and so stripes are a luxury he just can’t afford. Repeated trips to the dump seem like the only option, even if they take up a good chunk of his already minimal free time and aren’t exactly the easiest, most safe activity in the first place. But Papyrus keeps growing, and an increasing number of monsters they pass on the streets eye him over with barely contained malice and _Sans can’t fight them_. Not _all_ of them anyway. So, instead, he redoubles his efforts at the dump and tells himself it’s the best choice he has.

Or at least he does up until the point his brother expresses his disapproval.

He comes back one night, slouched and exhausted, to their secluded little alley at the fringes of the city. It’s dark and there’s not much space, but it’s dry and has two sturdy, brick walls at their sides plus a chain-link fence as a third at their backs, so it’s still a good bit fairer than what most others may have. At one point earlier on, the brothers had even brought in sheets of discarded metal and long planks of wood to build a tiny ‘roof’ for themselves and then used the leftovers to make a front ‘entrance’ to keep the elements out.

It’s not much—patchwork at best—but it’s closer to home than they’ve had in ages.

It’s as Sans enters their makeshift residence and his feet crinkle against their newspaper flooring that he finds his brother eyeing him closely.

“Sans,” Papyrus says in a startlingly firm tone that Sans has been hearing a lot more from him recently, “Stop doing this.”

He sighs and forces a smile to keep his weariness at bay, “What’re you talkin’ about, bro?”

Papyrus huffs angrily, “Just come straight home after work.”

“I _am_ coming straight home.”

“Don’t lie to me, brother,” Papyrus insists, voice steady and eyelights sparking in that stubborn, ceaseless way of his, “You keep going to the dump. The smell of it is unmistakeable.”

Sans feels his soul clench, sudden regret overwhelming any attempt at willful ignorance, “Shit, is it really? Sorry, bro. I swear I cleaned off in Waterfall but if the smell is still bothering you, I could sleep outside tonight—”

“ _Sans_ ,” His brother interrupts, his phalanges clenched into neat little fists over his femurs where he’s sitting on his knees, “It’s not the _smell_ that’s bothering me.”

A heavy silence follows his words. Papyrus gives him a pointed look.

Sans ignores it.

“Phew, that’s a relief,” He fakes a laugh instead, dropping down and jostling up against his brother as he moves to take off his ratty, old shoes, “I guess it’s not saying much, but it’s _a lot_ more comfortable sleeping in here.”

“Brother—”

This time, Sans is the one to cut him off.

“It’s late, Pap. We should probably get to sleep, yeah?” He says, tone final, “‘Sides, I found a new book that I think you might like, and I’m pretty excited to read it to you.”

There’s a conflicted look on his brother’s face and he opens his mouth as if to say something more. However, after a pause the moment passes, and Papyrus sighs in a manner far too long-suffering for someone just barely inching into adolescence. He scoots over to give Sans more room to settle at his side and looks around for the several long scraps of fabric that they call blankets before carefully draping them over their legs.

“What’s it about?” He asks, sounding almost genuinely curious if not for the way Sans can still see how tense his body is and how lackluster his usual excitement.

“Dunno,” he shrugs, pulling the book out from his tattered bag, “Guess we’ll have to find out together.”

Sans throws an arm around his brother to draw him in closer. Papyrus frowns at first, no doubt still annoyed with him for cutting off their burgeoning argument, but eventually he relents and rests his head against Sans’ shoulder. His brother pulls the sheets up until they’re both entirely bundled up, save for Sans’ hands still holding the book.

Despite the awful lighting and drab surroundings… it’s cozy. It’s nice in a way that it only ever is when they’re together and sharing in what they can with each other. It’s warm and familiar and comfortable.

Sans reads aloud and Papyrus is asleep within the first twelve minutes.

With a soft smile, he bookmarks the page and does the same.

 

 

It’s a few days after that before the conversation is brought up again.

He’s at the dump after work again, sifting through a particularly towering pile of items when he hears a voice call up to him from the bottom of the tall stack of trash. Normally, he’d ignore it—there were a fair number of monsters that would attempt to verbally harass anyone that they felt was encroaching on ‘their’ territory—but this time, the distinct tone of the voice makes him frown.

He glances down to see a familiar pair of eyelights staring at him.

Sans balks, “Papyrus?!”

His little brother casually kicks at an empty box at the bottom of the pile before looking up at him, “Exactly how long did it take you to climb that high?”

Soul launching into a frantic pulse in his chest, Sans practically races down the pile, slipping and sliding on his way. Loose items go flying in his wake, the whole precarious mountain of trash shifting dangerously under his hasty descent. Once at the bottom, panting from the sudden influx of dread rushing through his system, he quickly eyes the surroundings to make sure they haven’t caught the attention of any of the more threatening looking monsters in the area. Safety assured for the moment, he pulls Papyrus behind another tower of discarded objects and obscures them both from view.

“What the hell are you _doing_ here?” He hisses, gripping tight around his brother’s humerus.

Papyrus scowls at him before wrenching his arm out of Sans’ grasp, “I’m checking up on you.”

“ _Checking_ —? For fuck’s _sake_ , Papyrus. I don’t _need_ checking up on!”

His brother snaps his mouth shut in face of Sans’ obvious anger but looks nowhere near admonished. Instead, Papyrus brings his hand up and reaches out towards Sans’ face. Sans almost instinctively recoils. He freezes—has to remind himself that this is his brother and that there’s no danger here before his body untenses. Still, he startles a little at the feel of phalanges brushing against his face, uncharacteristically soft for his brother’s usual brash behaviour and general heavy-handedness. When Papyrus moves his hand back, it comes away with a streak of dark red, vivid against the dull white of his bone. Sans put his own hand up to his face and mimics Papyrus’s touch; realises that there’s a cut running down the side of his face.

He hastily scrubs the blood off his face and wipes his phalanges clean on his shorts.

“You didn’t notice, did you.” His brother says flatly.

Sans doesn’t respond, equal parts embarrassed at his oversight and infuriated with himself for letting Papyrus see him like this. Knowing his brother, he’s probably got this incident memorized and filed away for later—it’s unlikely that Pap will let this go, no matter how much of a minor injury this is. As if his brother didn’t already worry enough about how weak and frail Sans is.

He’s let him down again.

“… you look tired, Sans.”

Sans sighs and shuts his sockets in weary finality, “Go home, Pap.”

But his brother only shakes his head, firm, “Not without you.”

He knows that tone. Knows that his brother’s mind is made up and that nothing short of a miracle will change it for him. Papyrus is stubborn after all. _Both_ of them are, really. But the biggest difference between them is that Sans will almost always yield to his brother.

And what can he say in face of such conviction anyways?

“Fine,” he relents, “You can stay.”

The way Papyrus’s face lights up is almost worth the effort it takes to force out the words. His brother immediately straightens up, corners of his mouth twitching as he tries and fails to hold back a grin, “Alright, good. So, what are we looking for? Should I go check—”

Sans’ soul twists, “Pap, no.”

“… what?”

“You’re not gonna go searching for anything,” And as Sans speaks, his brother frowns, sockets narrowing under furrowed browbones, “You can _stay_ , but I don’t want you getting involved.”

Papyrus looks borderline outraged, “Sans, I can—”

“I _mean it_ , Papyrus,” he interrupts once more, ignoring the way seeing his little brother upset makes him instantly want to apologise, “You have two choices; you can either stay out of trouble or you can go home. Which will it be?”

Papyrus grits his teeth. Grinds them hard against each other. His phalanges clench into fists at his sides and his shoulders hunch up defensively. His eyelights blaze with insult, flecked with the smallest flashes of hurt.

But.

He makes his choice.

And Sans lets him stay.

 

 

It’s actually less ruinous having Papyrus with him than Sans’ imagination had conspired. Each time they head out together, his brother is perfectly well behaved. All he ever does is hover nearby, keeping a close watch. He draws no attention to himself and lets Sans do all the work precisely as he was asked to. There’s no doubt that his endlessly energetic sibling is bored out of his skull, but Sans knows he’s safe and, honestly speaking, that’s all he’s ever looking for.

He even finds himself looking forward to visiting the dump nowadays. Before, it had been just another chore to complete on his never-ending list but now, with Papyrus tagging along beside him, it feels a lot less like work. It’s nice to be able to spend more time with his brother, trading jokes and passing remarks on the sorts of strange, obtuse items that fall from the surface. It’s nice to actually be able to _talk_ with him past the tired, forced conversation that he usually attempted at the end of each long, exhausting day.

It goes on like this for _weeks_ —repetitive and blissfully uneventful.

So, maybe that’s why Sans eventually slips up.

He’s rummaging through old electronics, the smell of battery acid rank around him. No actual, workable, _batteries_ so far though, and Sans is debating just going out and splurging some gold on a pack of new ones for their dying flashlights when he pops the back off an old controller and finds a promising pair of small cylinders. He hopes against hope that these ones will work because, as much as Papyrus _insists_ he’s not afraid of the dark anymore, Sans knows that that’s not true. He’s already seen the reality in the way Papyrus sits ramrod straight with his small hands wrapped tightly around the torch like a lifeline on those days where Sans comes home late and the streetlights have long since gone out.

With whispered words of encouragement, he pops them into their flashlight he’s brought with them and takes a second to brace before pressing the switch at the side. As it flickers to life, a wide grin stretches across his face.

He turns around and shakes the flashlight up in the air triumphantly, “Hey, Pap! Look what I got!”

Only.

When he turns around, Papyrus is no where in sight.

It’s like every bone in his body immediately goes cold.  Sweat breaks out over his forehead as he darts his gaze around in a frenzy.

But, no matter where he looks, his brother isn’t there.

“Papyrus!” He shouts in panic, only to slap his hands over his mouth a second later. He swallows down his alarm as best he can, not wanting to alert any monsters lurking nearby to his vulnerable state. He knows that if someone’s taken his brother, his best chance at getting him back is by surprising them. And, for that, he’ll need to be quiet. No matter _how_ much he wants to scream.

He forces himself mock-calm, walks away from the discarded electronics around him and makes his way cautiously around the area. There’s no set path to follow, but he keeps a map in his head anyway, carefully cataloguing every area he’s already been and the ones still left to go to. He winds around pile after pile, inspecting each location and eyeing the monsters his passes with a critical eye.

The sick nausea of uselessness continues to rise up inside him, minutely rattling his bones for every moment that passes and he doesn’t spot his little brother. Every possible scenario rushes, unbidden, into his mind. Flashing images, each more horrific than the last. His soul is thudding, pounding awful and heavy against the inside of his ribcage. Having no lungs doesn’t keep him from feeling breathless with worry either, choked and restless and unfalteringly tense.

Then he spots him.

Papyrus is kneeling by a stack of books, smiling lightly to himself as he picks through the titles. The flood of relief that pours through Sans at the sight is almost enough to bring him to his _own_ knees. The only thing that keeps him standing is the tide of fury that chases after it.

“ _Papyrus_ ,” He seethes, and his brother whirls his head around to look at him, innocent and unassuming, “Are you out of your mind?”

His brother entirely ignores his anger, “Oh, are you finally done?”

“Get up,” Sans motions at him, soul still racing with that bittersweet mixture of emotion, dizzying and thick, “We’re going home. _Right now._ ”

“What? But don’t you want to at least look at this stuff I found first?”

It’s hard to keep his voice steady when his body is caught in this hitch of wanting to both scream and cry instead, “It doesn’t matter what you _found_ , Papyrus! I _told_ you to stay put and you _deliberately_ disobeyed me!”

“Is that why you’re so upset?” Papyrus frowns at him and his matter-of-fact tone just makes Sans all the more exasperated, “I wasn’t being useful by sitting in one place, Sans. Besides, I’ve watched you do this for weeks—I can handle it.”

“You _can’t_ handle it!” He chokes out, gesticulating wildly as he tries— _tries so damn **hard**_ —to just make his little brother _understand_ , “You’re not—you—you’re still a _kid_ , Paps!”

“So are you.”

Sans falters.

Papyrus just stares at him, pointed and calm.

“So are you,” his brother repeats, “And I don’t think it’s fair that you have such different standards for what that means depending on who you’re applying it to.”

And Sans hates these moments— _hates_ when Papyrus sounds analytical and mature. Because, for all that it might be good in a big picture sense, to him it just proves that he’s gone about everything all wrong. That he’s completely screwed up. That he hasn’t been able to protect his brother well enough to keep him bright-eyed and hopeful like he used to be in days long since past. That now, when Papyrus speaks, he sounds far older than he is; forced into being critical when he should be able to enjoy his childhood without that creeping sense of fear that something will snatch it all away.

“I don’t think it’s fair to _either_ of us.” His brother adds in a whisper, eyes darting to the floor.

Sans hates these moments where Papyrus is _right_.

… even when Sans doesn’t want him to be.

“Pap…” he sighs, posture slumping heavily as he takes a step towards him.

Then, there’s glint of something metallic in the corner of his vision and a sudden searing pain along his right arm.

“Sans!” he hears his brother yell, distressed.

He’s disoriented—the unexpected laceration leaving him reeling from the sharp feel of it across his bones. It takes him a second to find his purchase as he notes the way his overtopped HP depletes in a single, awful moment. He grits his teeth against the prickling pain, clamps a firm hand over the wound and ignores the slick, wet consistency of blood underneath his phalanges as he turns his head to the side.

The monster staring them down is reptilian in appearance; all scales and sharp teeth. Its powerful looking tail shifts like a promise behind it, shiny eyes tracking their movements. In its hands, it holds a pointed weapon that glints red at its very tip.

Sans knows in an instant that he can’t fight this monster and expect to win.

“Hey, buddy,” He tries instead, also shooting Papyrus a look and silently telling him to run—as expected, his brother doesn’t move an inch, “You really the type of person to pick on kids?”

“ _Kids?_ ” The monster scoffs, “I see no stripes on either of you.”

“Hah, yeah, I can see how that might confuse you but, uh… no, yeah, we’re _definitely_ still too young for this shit.”

The monster looks unimpressed, grips their pseudo-spear a little tighter as they change into an obvious offensive stance.

Sans swallows down his fear, “You can… you can Check us to confirm if you don’t believe me.”

Papyrus’s sockets go wide and he darts his gaze back at Sans, disbelief written across his features. Sans avoids looking back at him—doesn’t want his brother to see how desperate he is that he needs to expose them like this in order to get them safely out of the situation. They’ll see his HP like this yeah, but… they’ll _also_ be able to see his age. And, more often than not, that’s enough of a deterrent; even if it’s a pretty big risk to take.

Then again, it’s not like him to trust someone else’s sense of morality and goodwill.

But. He can’t _fight_ in this condition and Papyrus _refuses_ to leave without him, so his hands are pretty much tied. It’s the most solid plan he has at the moment—the one the gives him the highest chance of his brother making it out of this unscathed.

The monster looks considering. It cants its head in Papyrus’s direction and pauses for a few seconds. Sans sees his brother shiver before the monster frowns and murmurs slowly to itself. It seems disappointed to discover that it was, in fact, being told the truth. Then, it turns its head back towards him.

His soul sinks.

He was hoping that Checking Papyrus would be enough for them.

Instead, Sans feels the intrusion of their Check run through his magic. And so, he can see in their gaze the moment that they take in his critically low HP. Their eyes glint as the realisation that he’s basically free EXP dawns on them. Sans knows that the plan has failed before the beginnings of a grin even work its way onto the monster’s face.

“Well, it was worth a shot.” He says with an affected shrug, holding back a wince as the motion jostles his injured limb.

As the monster repositions its spear in Sans’ direction, he’s resigned to fight as best he can.

It lunges at him, Sans lets his magic flare to life and—

—a tattered shoe knocks right into the side of the reptile’s head, stopping it dead in its tracks.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where it came from, and both Sans and the reptile look in Papyrus’s direction. His brother doesn’t say a word—simply stares the monster down with all the confidence he can muster, eyelights glaring ferociously in its direction. Sans feels a sudden rush of pride at just how damn _cool_ his little bro is.

“You little _shit_.” The monster growls, redirecting its attention Papyrus’s way. His brother valiantly stands his ground but Sans knows him well enough to see the way his bones just slightly tremble. The reptile turns fully towards Papyrus, shifting the aim of its weapon in his direction.

And that just won’t do.

“I don’t think so, pal,” Sans thunders as he runs into the monster from behind, effectively catching them off-guard. He bowls them over and knocks them flat on their front, bites back a pained grunt at the way the assault aggravates his wound. The monster beneath him groans from the impact and Sans quickly scrambles back up to his feet and races over towards his brother.

“Sans, are you—?!”

“M’fine, Pap,” he assures as he grabs tightly onto his brother’s hand, “Not really the time for that right now, though. We gotta book it.”

Papyrus nods just as the monster behind them lets out a frustrated roar. The brothers glance back for only a moment, enough to see the reptile unsteadily attempting to get back up on its feet. They exchange meaningful glances with each other before turning tail and running as fast as they can.

Sans is faster—he always has been—but he continues gripping firmly onto Papyrus’s hand so that his brother doesn’t lag too far behind. Papyrus trips and stumbles anyway as Sans directs them round and round several different areas in the dump but manages to stay on his feet, never slowing for an instant. Both brothers stay on guard, and as Sans maps out their escape route, Papyrus calls out the position of their pursuer at regular intervals.

Several minutes of desperate evasion pass before Sans feels a tugging at his arm and realises that Papyrus is asking him to let go.

“Pap, we can’t stop yet,” Sans pants as he reluctantly releases his hold around his brother’s hand.

“Why?” Papyrus demands, “We haven’t seen them since we passed the pile of waste human food a way back.”

“We gotta shake them off completely,” Sans insists and turns around to explain, “We can’t risk them following us back… home…”

He trails off as he notices the tears streaming down his brother’s face.

“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck?” He says, immediately rushing in close, “Papyrus, what’s wrong? Are you hurt??”

“ _No_ ,” his brother forces out between sniffles, furiously attempting to both wipe his eyes and push away Sans’ worrying hands, “ _I’m_ fine.”

Papyrus looks directly at Sans’ still bleeding injury, sockets refilling with frustrated tears.

Sans feels his soul pang with regret, “Ah, shit, bro… I’m… I’m okay. Don’t worry about me, yeah?”

“But it’s _my_ fault,” he embitters, “If I hadn’t left to look around…”

Then suddenly, his brother’s sockets go wide and his expression changes entirely. He snaps his head down away from Sans and starts rummaging through the overlarge pocket of his hand-me-down hoodie as if remembering something he’s forgotten. Sans watches as his brother pulls small knickknacks out of his clothes and tosses them aside, uncaring of the way they bounce around and disappear into the trash around them. Eventually, he pulls out what looks like a small white box.

He holds it out towards Sans with an excited grin. Sans only frowns down at it, confused. Papyrus pushes it towards him when he makes no move to take it however, so Sans retrieves it from his brother with bewilderment. Once in his hands, he turns the box over and takes a closer look at it.

He sees a red cross embellished at the front of it and looks back up to see Papyrus still smiling eagerly at him.

 _Oh_.

“Uhh… Papyrus…” he starts.

“I found it!” His brother offers excitedly, “I didn’t even imagine we’d have to use a first aid kit so quick, but it’s good that we at least have one when we need it, right?”

“Y-yeah, bro, but… listen…”

“Well? What are you waiting for, brother?” Papyrus continues, unabashedly enthusiastic, and Sans finds that he doesn’t have it in him to tell his brother the truth, “Or did you want me to help?”

“Heh… sure, Paps.”

His little brother beams at him and quickly ushers Sans into taking a seat in the cleanest place he can find amidst all the trash. Next, he takes the first aid kit back from Sans’ grasp and pops it open. For being something thrown away, it’s still fairly well stocked. There’s some gauze and adhesive tape right at the forefront, followed by some thread and a pack of three needles stuffed behind it. There are also several small bottles of pills—painkillers, mostly, from what Sans can tell. There are scissors and safety pins and two small packets of alcohol wipes. Papyrus bypasses them all and goes straight for the elastic bandages.

He pulls them out reverently and sets them cautiously on his lap while he reaches back in to retrieve the wipes. He rips the packet open with his teeth and pulls out the pre-dampened clothes from within. Papyrus reaches out towards Sans’ arm and makes eye-contact, as if to ask if he’s doing okay. Sans simply gives him a smile and nods encouragingly. Papyrus grins in response and goes right back to it, cleaning the area as best he can. The alcohol stings but Sans holds back any sounds of pain—doesn’t want Papyrus to think it’s his fault it hurts.

Once that’s done, his brother carefully wraps the bandage around his arm. Papyrus has always had an eye for detail, and it shows in the way he evenly spaces the cloth around Sans’ humerus. Elastic or not, Sans is fairly certain he’d never be able to manage the same amount of finesse if he did it himself.

To finish it all off, Papyrus picks up a safety pin from the box and locks the bandage into place.

“There!” His brother exclaims, satisfied.

“Nice work, bro.” Sans says, rotating his arm and testing the hold.

He feels himself get Checked.

_Uh oh._

“What…?” Sans can hear the confusion in Papyrus’s voice as he no doubt flusters over the way Sans’ HP remains obstinately in the decimals despite the treatment, “Why isn’t it working?”

“Papyrus…”

“Did… did I do it wrong? What did I miss?”

There’s no avoiding it.

Sans sighs, “They’re human bandages, Pap. All they do is stop the bleeding. They don’t heal like ours do.”

A pause. And Papyrus’s expression hardens, “Then what was the _point_.”

With a surprisingly amount of vitriol, his little brother tosses the first aid kit down in a fit of anger. The contents go spilling out of it. Papyrus kicks the fallen rolls of bandages away from him and hunches down on the floor. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, hiding his face behind his knees.

“Pap…”

“I messed up.” His brother croaks.

“Hey, no…” Sans insists, shifting closer towards him and wrapping his arms around Papyrus’s balled up form, “I’m okay, bro. It’s not even that big a deal.”

“How is it not?!” Papyrus near yells, voice still cracking with emotion, “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all.”

“We all make mistakes, Pap, and accidents happen. Doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.”

Papyrus body trembles as he sobs. Sans sighs and pulls him in closer, tucking his skull under his chin. He presses a soft, clanking, kiss to the top of his head and rubs consolingly at his side. Papyrus unwinds from his curled-up position and flings his arms around Sans’ middle, burying his face in his brother’s chest.

“I’m sorry, Sans.” He whispers, words muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

Sans smiles and hugs his little brother tighter, “It’s okay, bro… and hey, at least now I won’t be leaving a creepy as hell trail of blood all the way home, huh?”

Papyrus hiccoughs a laugh and weakly pushes at his chest in reproach. Sans only grins, continuing to smooth his hand over his brother’s back and soothe him as best he can. As the shaking subsides, he eyes the spilled contents of the first aid kit; the magicless bandages and ointments; the pills and the gauze.

And then.

His eyes catch on the needles and the spool of thread.

Sans stares.

 

 

He can see that Papyrus doesn’t understand why Sans is so insistent on taking the first aid kit home when it’s practically useless to them, but he’s glad his brother plays along anyways. He even helps Sans’ near frantic last-minute search for the cleanest scraps of cloth he can find, gathering it up by the armful.

When they get back to their alley, Sans promptly gets to work laying everything out in an arc around himself. He uses the scissors from the kit to cut and tear up the scrap fabric into long strips of cloth. Then, he arranges all the pieces on a solid coloured shirt that’s just Papyrus’s size. He makes sure to pin them all in place with safety pins and, once that’s done, he pulls out a needle from the pack.

He threads it carefully as Papyrus watches, and brings it down to the fabric.

Sans sews his brother his stripes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you guys have figured out where this fic stems from already, but—you know how in UT, Sans makes Paps' battle body? I like to imagine that, even in Underfell, Sans does a lot of sewing for the things that Pap wears. I wanted to explore what that would mean in terms of Papyrus's Royal Guard outfit and so this fic sorta spawned as a result ahahaha :'D
> 
> The second chapter will skip to the bros being older and living in Snowdin, and I'm hoping to have it out before the end of the month~ Other than that, I'm still in the process of plotting out a larger, multichapter, Underfell fic but, if you guys have any prompts, feel free to send them my way! Either here or at [my tumblr](http://anirrahn.tumblr.com/ask) is fine by me <3 :"))
> 
> (Also, also—in addition to the quote up top, the title is also referencing the quote, "The road to ~~Fell~~ Hell is paved with good intentions.” because I'm a sucker for puns heheheh Who knows, I might actually use it as a series name or something later~ ;D)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooboy, this chapter ended up being about twice as long as I anticipated. :'D

His brother is in A Mood.

Papyrus has been antsy all day really—from the moment he’d shouted Sans awake and pulled him bodily downstairs for some stress-cooked breakfast, to right this second as he storms back into the house after his meeting with Undyne. Sans is sitting on the couch when his brother slams the door open, the lines of his shoulders tense and his face shadowed. He can barely verbalise a greeting before Papyrus stomps up the stairs and whips into his room, the reverberation of the door banging shut loud in the sudden silence his entrance has left.

_Well shit._

Looks like the meeting hadn’t gone too well.

Sans sighs and gets up off the couch, bones creaking from the effort after so long spent sitting in one place on his rare day off. He slowly makes his way up the stairs after his brother, stopping in front of Papyrus’s door. He eyes the ‘Keep Out!’ sign hanging from the doorknob with weariness.

Seems like he’s been doing a lot of talking to people through doors lately.

He raises a hand up and raps lazily at the solid wood, “Knock knock, bro.”

“Go away, Sans.” Papyrus responds, and it sounds near enough that Sans can envision him slumped against the door.

“That’s not right, Pap. You’re supposed to follow up with, ‘Who’s there?’”

Papyrus sighs loudly from the other side, “I am _not_ in the appropriate frame of mind to deal with your particular brand of comedy right now.”

“Still wrong, bro,” Sans winks even though his brother can’t see him, “It’s okay, I’ll just pretend you did it right and continue—Olive.”

“Sans, I’m _serious_. I am not in the mood.”

“Nah, it’s ‘Olive who?’ next.”

“ _Sans_ —”

“And then I say,” he interrupts, rushing on, “ _Olive_ you.”

Silence.

It’s a promising reaction. Next to Papyrus groaning with played-up annoyance, this is the best sign that his brother is receptive to being approached. The seconds tick on by and Sans settles on the floor by the door, turning around and pressing his back up against it.

And sure enough, after a moment his brother confides in him, words quiet and soft, “Undyne told me that I’m still not ready.”

Sans had figured that it was something like that, “It’s okay, bro. There’s always next—”

“There _isn’t_ , Sans!” Papyrus shouts, his voice cracking at the end in a way that twists Sans’ soul something awful, “I’m… I’m beginning to feel like she’s never going to let me join.”

“Pap…”

“Sometimes…” his little brother continues in a whisper, like a secret he’s afraid to share, “… it feels like she’s just humouring me because we have history together.”

And there’s the rub—because Sans already _knows_ that she is.

He and Undyne may not be close exactly—it’s difficult to maintaining civility when she’s constantly catching him sleeping on the job—but what they do have in common is that they both love Papyrus. It’s obvious to Sans, even without talking to her directly about it, that she cares for his brother and wants to see him safe. Undyne knows first hand what sort of monster Papyrus is, and if it’s hard for _Sans_ to picture his brother in any position as ruthless and demanding as that of a Royal Guard, it’s likely that she, as Captain, feels much the same.

But, at the same time, there’s no doubt in his mind that it must be frustrating for Papyrus to get rejected over and over without a proper reason as to why. Because it’s not that his brother isn’t any good at fighting. It’s not even that his magic is lacking or poorly controlled. In fact, if it was based on skill alone, like it typically was for most of those that applied, Papyrus would be a shoe-in.

In actuality, he suspects that what stops Undyne from adding Papyrus to the ranks is that his brother lacks the sort of barely tamed bloodlust that makes up most levels of the guard. Papyrus is more likely to attempt to talk someone down from a fight than he is to engage with them in combat in an effort to cut his losses. Even in the face of the most harrowing situations, Papyrus is merciful above all else. And that sort of behaviour is dangerous.

That sort of thing could get his brother killed.

It’s another one of those moments where Sans is torn between lying to his brother for his own benefit or telling him a bitter truth that would undoubtedly crush him. He doesn’t like being dishonest with Papyrus, knows that coddling him with false assurances is ridiculous in a world where every piece of knowledge is vital to survival. But… the days that his brother genuinely smiles are getting more and more infrequent…

So, really, there’s only one choice he can make.

“I’m sure it’s not like that, bro.” He insists, the lie passing smoothly with the ease of practice, “Just give it a little time. Undyne will come around eventually.”

But today it doesn’t seem like Papyrus is willing to let it go at just that, “How _much_ more time?! At this rate, I’ll be waiting years for her to recognise my ability and I just can’t wait that long. I need to do this _now_ , Sans. For both of us.”

“Papyrus,” Sans starts, soul going tight at his brother’s words and his own rushing up unbidden, “I already told you that it’s fine. I’m handling things. I don’t need your—”

He realises what he’s saying too late.

He clamps his mouth shut, but the damage is done.

Silence falls between them again, this time heavy and tense. Sans can feel himself break out into a sweat, his bones twitching with anxious energy. When at last Papyrus speaks, he damn near shivers at how cold his brother’s words come, void of all his usual vigor.

“I’m tired. I don’t think I’ll be joining you for dinner.”

“Pap, I didn’t mean—”

“Good night.”

The shift of clothes rustling on the other side of the door signal his brother getting up off the floor and moving away. Sans winces at the sound, mentally reproaching himself for letting his feelings get the better of him. He reminds himself that Papyrus isn’t a kid anymore; long gone are the days where he would beg and plead to be allowed to help Sans do something.

Nowadays, Papyrus acts first and asks for forgiveness later.

Sans isn’t sure quite when it happened, but his little brother has somehow gotten it into his head that he needs to be the one to take care of him. It doesn’t matter how many times Sans explains to him that he doesn’t need to be protected—that he managed just fine all those years when Papyrus was too young to do anything at all—his brother is _adamant_ about being some sort of one-monster security detail for him.

It’s both touching and absolutely exasperating.

Because, despite how good Papyrus has gotten at strategic combat, Sans _knows_ that his soul isn’t in it. His brother has never been the antagonistic type, never been hostile to anyone in the slightest unless forced into a position that offered no alternative. Papyrus, if anything, is awkward and unsociable at the worst of times but never in a malicious, purposeful way.

What his brother _is_ , is smart. Sans doesn’t know anyone else who could tear through a book of puzzles during their lunch break. Or, for that matter, anyone who could do complex math in their head like an afterthought, while simultaneously working on something entirely separate. If they’d had the money and the means when they were younger, Papyrus could’ve honed those skills. He could’ve given even Alphys a run for her money. But, instead, they’d spent so much of their youth in the shadows pretending not to exist that sometimes Sans thinks his brother has forgotten how.

Things are better now. It isn’t a constant struggle to get through every day. Yet, no matter how much Sans insists that he would rather see Papyrus live his own life to the fullest, his brother’s top priority is always survival.

And when it comes to survival, it comes to Sans’ poor constitution and his numerous part-time jobs.

And that, eventually, leads right back to Papyrus wanting to help.

Sans sighs and rubs a boney hand down his tired face. He gets up off the floor and eyes Papyrus’s closed door one last time before turning back towards the stairs. It would do no good to force a conversation now when Papyrus is clearly upset with him, so he makes his way back down.

He didn’t mean to make his brother upset. He knows by now that Papyrus doesn’t take kindly to being treated like a child when he’s more than capable of making his own decisions and his own mistakes. It doesn’t make it any easier though. It never stops Sans from worrying constantly about being the reason his brother gets hurt.

He pushes those circling thoughts from his mind and tries to focus on what he needs to do to make it up to his brother. Papyrus has always been fond of pasta—maybe he could ask his friend in the ruins for any simple recipes he could whip up for his brother. Or maybe he should just grab Papyrus a milkshake from Grillby’s. He knows that his brother is a fan of those despite the amount of grumbling and fussing that goes into him ordering one.

When Sans reaches the bottom of the stairs however, his planning is immediately distracted by the sight of Papyrus’s jacket tossed carelessly to the floor right by the door. His soul aches at the sight; Papyrus must have been in a terrible mood to be so untidy. Even his brother’s favourite pair of red combat boots are cast messily aside. It’s not at all like him to be so negligent with his possessions.

He moves forward to straighten out his brother’s boots, picks his jacket up from the floor as well. As he does so, he notices that there are a couple of tears in the old, worn leather. Some of them are large and unsightly, going conspicuously across the front of it. Sans sighs. He could go about repairing it but, at this point, Papyrus would probably be better off with a new jacket entirely.

He rubs at the leather as he mulls it over in his head, wondering how much of the material he’d need to use in order to make something brand new. He could try using some of the sturdier stuff too. Make it so that it was less likely to get shredded up every time his brother trained with Undyne. It’d almost be like fashioning Papyrus a set of his very own armour—

Sans stills, stares down at the garment in his hand more judiciously.

 _Huh_.

 

 

It takes him a little over a week to complete the outfit, which still isn’t a lot considering the sparse amount of free time he has to work on it, and that too when Papyrus isn’t around. During that time, his brother continues to ignore him, obviously still upset at having his sentiments disregarded. Things at home are awkward and tense because of it, but Sans leaves him be. Neither of them has ever been particularly gifted at talking things out, so he hopes that at least seeing the work he’s done will earn him Papyrus’s forgiveness.

He’s almost done now, fake-gold paint in hand as he leans carefully over the outfit. He slowly draws out a sigil over the left breast of the garment, hand steady and unshaking. Finishing touches done, he stands back and looks it over, arms akimbo.

It’s only very vaguely like that of a true Royal Guards’. More like a Halloween costume than anything else if Sans is being entirely honest. But that doesn’t mean that it’s sloppily put together or made out of cheap material. Sans had gone all out for this, both recycling a ton of old clothes and even going as far as purchasing fresh material to craft the outfit. The point of all this isn’t to make Papyrus look exactly like a true guard anyways—he’s fairly certain it’d break some sort of law if he did—but to bolster his brother’s confidence and let him know that Sans, despite all his misgivings about this situation, would support him no matter what.

He hadn’t recreated everything. For example, the footwear for the outfit are simply just the deep red, combat boots that Papyrus favours, completely unchanged. And the pants are just a regular pair of leather ones from the back of his brother’s closet, likely something Papyrus had forgotten he even owned. All Sans has done is fill in the blanks, so to speak.

He’d crafted some red leather gloves to match the boots and a pair of knee guards made of some studier leather that Papyrus can simply strap on over his pants. The gloves aren’t quite the gauntlets that most of the guard use, but his brother is dextrous to begin with, not the heavy bruising type, so leather is best for him. It’s light and easy to maneuver and still gives his brother enough protection that it’ll take more than a few hits to really leave a mark.

All that in mind, Sans had also fashioned a leather top for his brother—cropped; artfully torn at the bottom—because although Papyrus would never admit to it, he’d always had a fondness for showy, flashier outfits. He doesn’t really need to say it in any case, not when Sans can see the way Papyrus wistfully eyes the deluge of costumes Mettaton adorns himself in during one of his many shows. So, the top shows off more of his spine than proper armour probably _should_ , but Sans knows what his brother likes and this is more about apologising to him and helping his little brother indulge himself when he can, than it is about making something strictly for combat.

He’d had no sheeted steel at his disposal—not any that wasn’t already being used up in the lab in any case—and so he made Papyrus’s pauldrons out of leather. His inexperience made it more difficult to work he’d initially anticipated and they ended up looking almost cartoonish, ends sticking up like long spikes from the shoulders. It was practically like something from one of Alphys’s animes and Sans nearly wanted to discard them in sheer embarrassment. But, in the end, the part of him that still got anxious over even just the thought of wasting something won out and he didn’t scrap them. What mattered was that they were functional—as much as this ‘armour’ could be.

Last was the helmet.

Ideally, what he needed to do was make some sort of mail coif that would cover the vulnerable bones of Papyrus’s neck. For that, he’d gone digging in the basement, pushing through how uncomfortable being surrounded by that much thrumming machinery made him feel. He’d eventually found some steel wire—16 gauge; stainless steel; not too terribly bad off all things considered—but it didn’t seem like there was enough of it for a full coif like he wanted. Nevertheless, he’d taken it back into the house, locking the basement up after him, and spun it into a coil. If he couldn’t make a full coif with it, he’d find some other way to attach it to the armour.

Sans had _really_ gotten into the contents of his closet then, shifting and picking through every possible material at his disposal. There’d been several things could have worked, but he hadn’t really been sold on them, piling the items to one side as he continued to delve deeper into the veritable goldmine of trash he’d collected over the years. Still, nothing really stuck out at him.

Not until he’d caught sight of something red in a box at the back.

He’d reached in and pulled the box forward, a closer look immediately showing that it was filled with old things from their childhood. The red cloth itself is sticking out from underneath a pile of dusty books and broken knickknacks. He’d tugged at it, pulling it free and into his hands.

Instantly he’d been struck by a wave of nostalgia.

This thing had been with them for ages. It had belonged to Papyrus’s at first, though possession was a hazy subject at best when applied to a baby. It was the closest thing the small skeleton had had to a blanket when he’d first been handed to Sans all those years ago, all swaddled up and restricted. It’d been far too large for him then, miles more cloth than necessary for such a tiny thing. But when they had struck out on their own together, it had been invaluable to them, useful for everything from a blanket to a makeshift tent.

He’d run his phalanges over it almost reverently once he’d unearthed it from the confines of the box. It was old and dirtied now, torn up in a couple of places. But with a good wash and a couple of well placed cuts and stitches, San could picture it fitting seamlessly into this little project of his. He could fashion it into a scarf—a cape, even—that would at least protect Papyrus’s weak point from being immediately visible. And, to further enforce it, he could make chain links from the steel wire and stitch them in underneath the cloth, helping it both keep its shape and be a little more viable as armour.

It’s not a typical choice but this wasn’t a real Guard outfit anyway. Besides, his brother would likely appreciate the loud red colour and general aesthetic of it before anything else. And what was he doing this for if not to make Papyrus happy?

So, as Sans stands back and looks down at his creation, he’s very nearly proud of his own workmanship. He’s come a long way from making striped shirts in the dead of the night. With that thought strengthening his resolve, he leaves his room and heads towards Papyrus’s.

It’s been long enough after their argument that the doorhanger telling Sans to keep out is gone, but the door itself is still shut. And, although Papyrus never locks it, Sans knows better than to just barge in, especially when his brother is still maintaining a frigid demeanour with him. So, he knocks and hopes that Papyrus is at least in a good enough mood to hear him out.

“ _What?_ ” Comes the grumble from beyond the door.

“I’ve got something to show you.” Sans says, unable to keep the grin out of his words or off his face.

His brother huffs, “I’m _busy_ , Sans.”

“C’mon, bro,” he implores, “It’ll only take a sec, I promise.”

When Papyrus remains indifferently silent, he speaks again.

“… please?”

There’s another pause before he hears his brother groan loudly in exasperation and shift around in his room. His soul is practically thudding straight out of his ribcage with anticipation before his brother finally opens the door. San grins up at him, wide and excited. Papyrus frowns down, still very clearly in a bad mood.

Sans spins on his heel and guides his brother back down the hall towards his room. As they both enter, he resists the urge to shout ‘ _tada_!’ as he gestures to the outfit laid out on his bed. Papyrus is quiet as he steps into the room and walks towards the display. His brother stands at the bottom edge of his mattress and stares down at the arranged outfit with a critical gaze. Then, he turns back to Sans.

“The hell is this?”

Sans laughs, soul still pounding in expectancy, “It’s a gift. For you.”

Papyrus narrows his sockets at him, a scowl working its way on his face, “Is this another one of your jokes, Sans?”

He quickly shakes his head, “Nah, bro, of course not. I made it for you. Honest.”

Papyrus’s gaze softens a bit a that, but he still looks bewildered, “What is it supposed to be exactly?”

And here, Sans grins wide, smile stretching full across his face.

“Your uniform.” He says.

He gives it a second.

It’s amazing to see that way Papyrus’s face changes as what he’s saying registers, his sockets going wide and his brow ridge raising. His brother’s head whips back to the outfit and then back at Sans in quick succession. When Sans only winks at him, Papyrus goes straight back to eyeing over the ensemble, inspecting it more closely.

“It’s…” Papyrus starts, voice low, “It’s not bad…”

“Gee, thanks, kid.” Sans says, wry and amused.

“Shut up,” his brother rolls his eyelights at him, but Sans doesn’t miss the distinct note of appreciation as he continues, “How did you _make_ this?”

“With a whole lot of patience.”

Papyrus ignores his non-answer, too busy drafting up a plan in his head, “If I wore this around Snowdin… everyone would think I was part of the Guard.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Suddenly, Papyrus frowns, “Wouldn’t that be illegal?”

“Not if you don’t _say_ you’re a guard,” Sans smiles, “No one can blame you for people making up their own bullshit assumptions, right?”

His brother still seems unsure, a rare look on him nowadays, “But you’ve made a sigil and everything…”

“It’s not the Royal symbol, bro. Not a Delta Rune in sight.”

“Then what is this?” Papyrus asks, pointing at the bright gold paint along the chest of the garment.

Sans flushes a little in embarrassment, averting his gaze, “Uhh… nothing special. Just, um. Something from a game I played. Figured it would be a neat little stand-in for the official one.”

Papyrus gives him a look.

Sans shrugs, face still burning hotly despite his nonchalance.

So, he’s a bit of a geek—what can he say?

But then.

Papyrus smiles, and it’s the _best damn thing_ Sans has seen in _days_ , “Of course it’d be something like that. I should have known.”

He chuckles and Papyrus shakes his head, expression softer than its been in far too long. Sans takes the opportunity to sidle up close to his brother, nudging him gently in the side, “So? Whaddya think, Pap?”

And when Papyrus looks down at him with a calculating smirk on his face, eyelights practically sparkling with conviction, Sans knows that he’s more than made up for their little spat a few days ago.

“It’s perfect. Thank you, brother.”

Sans beams.

 

 

Though he’d obviously made Papyrus the outfit with the assumption that his brother would wear it, he hadn’t been planning on it having quite the impact that it did.

It’s not the greatest, after all, and he’s sure that if anyone gave it a proper lookover, they’d notice it wasn’t a guardsman’s regalia at all. It’s the first time he’s made anything quite like this so he’s willing to admit that there are a lot of areas left to improve upon. Making armour isn’t quite the same as making new clothes, though Sans is sure that experience with the later at least helps in the process.

The point is that no one actually _tries_ to look into it too deeply. Snowdin itself has always been relatively harmless but there’s no denying the existence of a shadier, rowdier side that most inhabitants turned a blind eye towards in self preservation. But when Papyrus steps out into the town all dressed up in his new ‘uniform’, things change.

All eyes turn to his brother, the pure unbridled authority with which he holds himself enough to quell any questions as to his abrupt change in status.

It doesn’t matter that there’s been no word of a new addition to the guard. It doesn’t matter that none of the Canine Unit have mentioned anything about Undyne appointing someone new in town. No one is willing to cross Papyrus with their inquiries when he passes them dressed as he is, tall and menacing. Instead, most monsters take care to sit a little straighter when Papyrus is around, watching their words and doing their best to stay out of his path.

Sans hadn’t expected this level of attention directed towards his brother, and the sudden spotlight on his only family makes him intensely wary. He takes to sticking around by Papyrus as often as possible, excusing himself with a ‘break’ if his brother wonders why he’s not at work instead. The idea of someone trying to hurt him while Sans isn’t around to teach them a lesson weighs heavily on him, and it’s not until Papyrus snaps and damn near carries him back to his post with a stern order to _stay put_ that he tries to curtail his instinctive need to keep his brother safe.

And, of course, that’s when they come to take his brother out.

Sans only hears about it in a whisper as he shuffles tiredly from one sentry post to the next. It’s enough to send him into high-alert though, and he wastes no time in ‘porting from his current location back to Snowdin. Still, he only catches the tail end of the action.

There’s already a crowd gathered when he arrives, voices murmuring and arcing over each other as the monsters all try to get a better look at the scene. He pushes through them as he rushes towards the center. A couple monsters growl at him as he shoves them out of his way but all it takes is a look down at who exactly they’re picking a fight with for them to clamp their mouths shut and give him space.

When he eventually reaches the clearing in the center, his pounding soul nearly stutters to a stop at the sight.

Three monsters lay face-down in the snow. They’re all tied up, looking worn out but not too terribly injured. Right behind them, Papyrus kneels, testing their bonds. He too looks completely fine—like he didn’t even break a sweat.

Sans takes a step forward and his brother looks up, making eye contact.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Papyrus says, ever casual, browbone raised in askance.

The absurdity of the comment has Sans in stitches and suddenly he’s laughing so hard that monsters in the crowd start to back away, eyeing him nervously. Papyrus, for his part, just cracks a slight smile, turning his face down to hide it but not before Sans can see. It only makes him grin that much harder.

“Just came to see the show.” He says, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jacket and relaxing his posture.

Papyrus snorts, “Not much of a show. Seems like you’ve wasted your time, brother.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Sans hums, feeling lighter than he has in ages.

Sometimes he forgets just how fucking amazing his brother is.

“I would.” Papyrus says flatly, before hoisting the monsters on the ground up to their feet and turning them in the direction of Waterfall, “We should both get back to work.”

The implication there being that they’re both under Undyne’s employ, of course. Sans laughs again and his brother gives him a firm nod before getting right back to it. Sans can’t help but keep grinning as he leaves.

No one tries to challenge Papyrus after that, preferring to leave the stern-faced skeleton alone.

It applies to Sans too, although at somewhat of a lesser degree. No one in Snowdin had ever messed with him before—he’d made sure his reputation proceeded him when they’d first asserted themselves in town—but now _especially_ , they steer clear of him. He can still strike up a conversation without monsters edging away from him in some sort of fear of rebuke, but he _does_ find that fewer miscreants try to target him when he’s on his rounds alone near the ruins. It’s a welcome change; the less time he spends putting wannabe thugs in their place means more time he can spend practicing his jokes with his friend in the ruins while slacking on the job.

It’s probably not what his brother intended but, hey, Sans isn’t complaining.

Monsters do work up the courage to approach him about it eventually though. It’s not long after the display in town center, and he’s well into his third drink at Grillby’s when a few of the braver patrons come up to him. They ask him about Papyrus’s new position in a furtive whisper, eyes glancing suspiciously around as if to make sure his brother isn’t waiting to pounce from right around the corner.

Sans just shrugs his way through a half-assed answer, vague as all hell. They press at him for more information which he takes as a request for him to wax poetic about how great his brother is. Their growing irritation only fuels him further, and it’s somehow really funny to him in his alcohol-addled state that there’s nothing they can _actually_ do to make him talk. It’s only when one of the monsters looks just about agitated enough to initiate something when Grillby steps in.

He stares the monsters down, all blazing intensity, before they meekly turn tail and leave. Sans offers them a drunken salute as they go, snickering quietly to himself and facing back towards the front of the bar. As he relaxes back into his seat though, Grillby gives him a meaningful look.

“Well…?”

Sans eyes him from over the top of his glass, “‘Well’, what?”

“Papyrus,” Grillby says, succinct as ever, “Is he part of the Guard now?”

Sans grins and puts his glass down on the table. He leans forwards conspiratorially, motioning Grillby towards him. The elemental eyes him for a moment, purple flames dancing over his form, before leaning down as well.

Sans winks at him, whispers, “That’s certainly what everyone’s saying, isn’t it?”

The bartender backs away from him with a puff of annoyed smoke and Sans laughs.

 

 

It’s a lot less humorous when the members of the Canine Unit show up at their doorstop about five days later.

They’re sitting on the couch and working their way through one of Mettaton’s less tedious shows—Sans’ words, not Papyrus’s—when there’s a heavy knock on their door. The brothers eye each other over quickly, neither of them expecting any guests. Papyrus gets up and makes his way over to the door, pulling it open in one smooth motion. Sans can’t see who it is because of how his brother is standing but, the way Papyrus immediately goes stiff puts him instantly on guard.

Sans reaches for the remote to turn the volume down and listen to what’s going on.

“Good evening,” He brother says, at his most polite, “What brings you two here today?”

“Official business.” Comes the voice of Dogaressa and Sans is immediately on is feet, rushing towards the door.

“The Captain wants to see you.” Dogamy adds just as Sans comes up behind his brother.

Sans watches Papyrus from the corner of his sockets. He can see the almost imperceptible way his brother tenses at that, his shoulders going up just the slightest bit. He looks back to see the Dogi eyeing his brother up, paying careful attention to his outfit especially. Papyrus is still wearing it of course. He’s hardly taken it off since the day Sans made it for him.

With sudden startling intensity, Sans wishes that he’d never made it in the first place. Not if it was going to get his brother into trouble. Not if it meant Papyrus would get _hurt_.

His brother, for his part, exudes a perfect false-calm, “Oh? What for?”

“Confidential.” Dogamy says, finally looking over in Sans’ direction.

Papyrus bristles at that, “Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of my brother.”

“Captain’s orders,” Dogaressa barks, “Come with us peacefully and all will be made clear.”

“Wow,” Sans says, now completely on edge, “Could you make that any _more_ ominous?”

The Dogi stare at him wordlessly.

Sans hates it.

Papyrus eyes them both over carefully, thoughtful and considering. Something passes through his eyelights far too fast for Sans to catch. His brother seems to come to some sort of resolve before he finally turns to meets Sans’ gaze. They look at each other and Sans feels the ground drop out from under his feet.

“Bro… you can’t seriously be agreeing to this…”

“It’s _Undyne_.” Papyrus says, as if that’s enough explanation. As if that’s enough to make the anxiety sky-rocketing up inside of Sans stop in it’s tracks. Because what if Papyrus gets injured? What if this is a plot to take him down once and for all?

_What if he gets dusted?_

There’s a rational part of him that knows where his brother is coming from—understands that there’s very little chance any harm will come to him by Undyne’s hand.

Still.

“I’m coming with you.”

The Dogi immediately verbalise their disapproval, barking and growling even as they move to draw their weapons. Sans damn near growls right back. He’s just about getting ready to push them away with a couple of well-placed bone constructs when his brother holds out a hand and stops him from moving forward.

Sans looks up at him, questioning.

“I can handle this, Sans.”

“I’m not gonna just let you go there on your own!” He says, magic thrumming hotly in his bones.

“You don’t have to _let_ me do anything, brother,” Papyrus replies smoothly and Sans flushes at the hidden admonishment, “This has nothing to do with you. It’s my problem and I am telling you that I can deal with it on my own.”

“ _Nothing to do with me?_ Are you fucking _serious_ , Pap?” He shouts, and though his brother at least has the decency to look chagrinned, he doesn’t take it back, “Listen, I know you think that it’s fine because it’s only Undyne, but you _can’t_ let your guard down like this!”

“I understand your concerns, Sans,” Papyrus says, startling serious, “But what I’m asking here is for you to trust me.”

The request gives him pause.

He hesitates but doesn’t back away from his brother or the Dogi. Somehow, he can’t seem to move his body at all, unwilling to leave Papyrus’s side even after his brother has asked him to. And it’s not that he doesn’t trust Papyrus—he can’t name a single soul he trusts _more_ —but it’s just difficult when he’s inherently unwilling to leave his little brother to the dogs, so to speak.

Papyrus isn’t privy to that internal conflict though, and all he really registers is Sans remaining silent and unmoving.

Thus, his gaze hardens and he grits his teeth, turning away from Sans. He steps closer to the Dogi and, sensing his compliance, the monsters visibly relax, though they still don’t drop their weapons. Papyrus gives them a tight nod and they part to make room him in between them. They start to walk and his brother doesn’t glance back towards him for even a second.

Sans watches by the door as they lead Papyrus out of Snowdin.

He watches until Papyrus is a dot on the horizon and then several minutes past that, unable to tear his gaze away.

 

 

Having nothing to do, as it turns out, is a lot less fun when you’re not skipping out on work. When you’re simply counting down the hours and trying to pass the time, the listlessness is unbearable. The whole day drags on and on for Sans, every minute passing slower than the last. He briefly considers letting it pass in an alcohol induced blur of incoherence but ultimately decides against it—the only thing worse than Papyrus coming home and finding him in a state like that, would be Papyrus not coming home _at all_ and Sans only finding out the next day because he wasn’t sober enough to process it at the time.

So, he grits his teeth and tries to push thoughts of what could be happening to his brother out of his head. He tries his best to continue on like normal and attempts not to berate himself too much over ever making that shitty uniform in the first place.

It’s only when a soft, concerned, voice calls out to him that he considers that maybe ‘not-thinking-about-it’, isn’t really working.

“Is everything alright?” Asks the voice at the Ruins’ door and Sans jolts slightly where he sits.

“Huh? Oh… yeah, I’m… I’m fine.”

A pause, “That does not sound very reassuring.”

Sans tilts his head back against the door, “Sorry. I’m just a little distracted.”

“I’ve noticed. Your jokes today have not been up to your usual standard,” she huffs out a laugh before growing serious once more, “Is this about your brother?”

“That obvious, is it?” Sans chuckles, wry, before sighing and slumping against the stone doors, “I’m just… worried, that’s all. I can’t stop thinking about everything that could go wrong when he’s out there by himself.”

A moment passes silently as his friend considers his words.

“I know it can seem difficult at first,” she says, voice as soothing as ever, “But sometimes it’s far better to give your loved ones space and to trust them to know what’s best for themselves.”

“Even if you’re certain that they’re doing something real fucking stupid?”

She laughs, “Even then. Perhaps, especially so. Because you do far more good in giving them agency over their own affairs than you do by coddling them to the point of naivete. You’ve already made your own mistakes—it’s only fair to let your brother have a shot at making his own.”

“He’s all I’ve got…” Sans shrinks back into his jacket, honest like he rarely is with anyone but his brother, “I don’t wanna lose him.”

“I know.” She says, and something about the way she says it sits heavy in Sans’ soul. Like a certainty that she _does_ know. That she understands completely what he’s talking about.

“Family’s funny that way,” she continues, voice going a little quieter, almost reminiscent, “Despite knowing that you get more out of confiding in each other and sharing the burden, you’d much rather spare the other person any hardship at all because you want the best for them… and because there’s always that lingering fear that if you let them out into the world, you could lose them forever.”

“Yeah,” Sans whispers, the fluff of his hood brushing against his face as he turns his skull in towards the door, “Any suggestions on getting past that?”

“I’m a bit out of practice, to be honest,” she says, self-deprecating and wry, “But… I think the key is in always having hope that things will turn out for the best.”

“Hope, huh? Can’t exactly say I’m chock full of that.”

“I’ll admit, until recently I was much the same,” she confides, “So, I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything but my newfound optimism. Still… you love your brother, do you not?”

The question stills him, another difficult consideration sent his way. And he does love Papyrus—of _course_ he does—but it’s strange and unfamiliar to be asked that with no hidden intent behind it. It’s not something either he or his brother ever say outside the confines of their own home; a weakness to be guarded at all costs. So, it’s with inexperience that Sans nods jerkily in response, then confirms verbally when he remembers that she can’t see him.

“Then have faith in him,” she says, and there’s a smile in her tone that Sans can almost picture in his head, “Because I guarantee that for every worry you have about him not being able to handle it, _he_ worries about letting you down.”

Sans chuckles and takes a long, steadying breath, letting it drag between his teeth and through his ribs, cold where it brushes against the magic coating his bones.

“Yeah,” he says, “Okay.”

And it’s easier, with that in mind.

Despite all his insecurities, he _does_ have faith in Papyrus. When it comes down to it, Papyrus is the one Sans looks to for assurance that things always have a chance at turning out for the best no matter the adversities clawing along the path. His little brother is the sole flame of light in a pit of darkness, and Sans has been too busy trying to shield it from burning out to notice that he might have been smothering it himself.

With considerably more positivity, he lets his words wander back to lighter topics.

And, although he doesn’t say it out loud, he hopes his friend knows that he’s grateful.

 

 

In the end, he winds up at Grillby’s after all, though he passes on any drinks. He orders a disgustingly greasy burger and a side of fries, slathering them both with mustard before taking a even a single bite. Grillby must notice that he’s not in the best mood, because he slides an extra helping of fries Sans’ way, though he denies doing so when Sans calls him out on it.

All in all, it’s nice talking with all the usual suspects. It helps keep his mind off of things and he’s feeling a lot more relaxed by the end of the night. As he’s about to leave, he even asks Grillby to make that milkshake for Papyrus. His brother isn’t the type to really indulge in sweet things at night, but he’d likely appreciate it nonetheless.

When he treads back home, opens the door and steps inside however, it’s like his last few hours of calm immediately dissipate and his soul races into a panicked drumming in his chest once more.

Immediately he notices the tracks strewn across the carpet, muddy and wet and unmistakeably Waterfall. He eyes them to where they stop at the foot of the stairs, Papyrus’s boots taken off right next to them. The sight makes the magic he’s just consumed roil riotously around inside of him and Sans rushes to bound up the stairs, taking two at a time with not a second in between.

He slams open the door to Papyrus’s room only to be greeted with darkness.

Even the few seconds he takes to let his eyes adjust makes him feel like he’s going to throw up, anxiety clawing its way up through his very bones. It’s with only the faintest relief that he doesn’t when he sees the outline of a curled-up figure on his brother’s bed.

“Papyrus?” he calls out, to no answer.

He flicks on the light.

The figure on the bed doesn’t shift, blanket thrown all the way up over their form and obscuring them from Sans’ view.

He makes his way over carefully, nervousness making him falter in his steps. When he finally edges over close enough to see them properly, his soul squeezes in relief at the sight of his brother’s skull peeking out from underneath the blanket. He rushes over the rest of the way, immediately reaching out towards him.

As his hands make contact with Papyrus, his brother does not stir, sockets still firmly shut. A fresh wave of concern overwhelms Sans at that—normally his brother is so light a sleeper that just opening his bedroom door will rouse him. In a panic, Sans pulls back the blanket and searches him over for any visible signs of injuries. When nothing turns up in that quick overview, he goes for a more thorough search, putting his hands over Papyrus’s ribcage to where his brother’s soul lays underneath.

He releases a questioning pulse of magic, tense and worried, only relaxing when an answering pulse comes right back up from his brother’s core.

Papyrus isn’t injured at all. Just exhausted.

The relief is almost enough to make him weep and, as sappy as the thought is, Sans has to resist the urge to pull his sleeping brother tightly to his chest. He’d shoved his worry so far back in his mind that the unbridled joy of having his fears assuaged overwhelms him. He’s briefly considering pulling up a chair and sitting at his brother’s side while he waits for him to wake up when the doorbell rings. He’s reluctant to leave Papyrus, but his brother is clearly deep in sleep and he knows already that no amount of sitting there fussing is going to wake him up any sooner.

So, he carefully retreats from Papyrus’s room, silent as possible through force of habit even though his brother is currently impossible to wake, and makes his way back down the stairs. By the time he’s standing at the front door, poised to open it, he’s got a perfectly masked expression on his face, calm and unperturbed. No one would ever be able to tell he was fretting over his brother’s health just moments ago.

And it’s just as well, because when he opens the door, it’s Undyne waiting for him on the other side.

“Thought I smelled something fi—”

“ _Don’t_.” Undyne warns as she pushes her way past him and into the house.

Sans chuckles obligingly to mask his growing ire at seeing her after whatever she did to Papyrus and shuts the door as she enters, “What brings you here, Cap’n?”

She glances around the room before fixing him with a glare, “Where’s Papyrus?”

And only because she’s Undyne and because she’s as much a sister to Papyrus as Sans is his brother—despite whatever may have happened between them today—does he answer truthfully, “Upstairs. Sleeping.”

Undyne looks up at the landing, her expression closed.

“You really did a number on him.” He adds.

Something in her expression breaks at that, and she takes a deep breath before slamming herself down onto the couch, head in her hands.

“… everything okay, chief?”

“He’s _good_ , Sans.” She says, straight to the point, sounding frustrated and upset, “He’s really fucking good.”

Sans nods, sticking his hands in his pockets, “Yeah. I know.”

Undyne growls, head shooting up in anger and single, unscarred eye narrowing ruthlessly, “If he was _anyone_ else, anyone at _all_ , I’d have enlisted him in a _heartbeat_.”

“Yeah.” He repeats, because what else can he say? What else can he offer when he knows all this already? When he’s seen countless times just how much his brother’s endless persistence has paid off.

Sans simply stands back and watches Undyne slump on the couch, her expression pinched and pained. Her uncovered eye is furrowed in thought, her emotions playing clearly on her face. He’s been there. He knows what it’s like.

“Where’d he get that ridiculous outfit?” she asks after a while, breaking the silence.

“I wouldn’t call it _ridiculous_.”

She snorts, sitting up straight, “You made it, huh? Suppose I should’ve guessed as much.”

He’d made her something once. A dress.

It was incidental, actually. He hadn’t known it was for Undyne at the time. Papyrus had simply come up to him one day and asked if Sans could make one. He’d certainly never done it before, but he’d shrugged, asked his brother what he wanted it to look like and tried his hand at it. When it was done, Papyrus had taken it from him and wrapped it up all nice and neat with a little bow on top. Sans had watched, bewildered.

When he’d presented it to Undyne the next day as a birthday gift, Sans hadn’t said a word as she opened the package up. She’d known enough by then to approach him privately about it though; said it was a little short and frilly for her tastes—she’d been taller than Papyrus from the start and no dress made to his brother’s specifications would’ve matches up to hers—but serviceable enough with a good pair of shorts.

She’d thanked him.

Undyne sighs, tired and weary, “In the last few days, Papyrus has put a stop to the same amount of criminal activity as the Canine Unit, only he does it simply just by _being_ there. No fights. No casualties. All the reports show it.”

Makes sense—his brother is nothing if not showy. He’s loud and exuberant and has the sort of resting snarl on his face that would put most lesser monsters off immediately. His appearance alone was usually enough to keep people off of their backs. And that was _before_ the new outfit and the display of power in the middle of town.

“I can’t keep turning him down for no good reason.”

“Then don’t.” He says.

Undyne stares at him.

“He’s capable, Undyne,” he continues, and as he speaks he almost surprises himself because he believes them wholly, “He always _has_ been. And pretending that he isn’t is only going to frustrate and hurt him.”

When Undyne only continues to stare, he allows his tone to soften, “He trusts us to be honest with him.”

She’s on the edge already, Sans can tell. She’s got the same look to her that he’s sure he had before talking to his friend in the Ruins. Undyne knows what the right thing to do is already—that’s why she’s here and not still back in Waterfall, after all—she just needs that last bit of assurance to take her through the final stretch. And what better place for that to come from than someone else who went through the same dilemma?

The conflicted look lingers in her a moment longer before she sighs, running a hand over the top of her tightly pulled back hair.

“Fine,” she says as she stands, and Sans has to carefully monitor his expression to not let the way his soul pounds at the word affect it, “Tell Papyrus to stop wearing that godawful awful mess around town once his real uniform is delivered.”

Sans raises a browbone at her.

She grins, her numerous sharp little teeth on threatening display, “Maybe I’ll even put in a good word and get something just as ostentatious made for him.”

“How thoughtful of you.” He says, good-humoured.

“That’s me,” she smiles, a real grimace of a thing, “ _Real_ fucking thoughtful.”

She stomps up to him then, pokes him straight in the chest. The pressure behind it is intense and Sans has to shift his stance to keep from toppling over, “ _Don’t_ let me catch you sleeping at your station again.”

“Never.”

“I _mean_ it,” she growls, “I’m putting Papyrus in charge of Snowdin to begin with. If you slack off at your post here, it’ll reflect poorly on your brother.”

“I won’t.” Sans says, more seriously this time.

“Good.” She nods and straightens up again. Then, she turns away from him and walks back towards the door. Sans doesn’t expect her to say anything else, so when she pulls it open and suddenly pauses in the doorframe, he watches her curiously.

Undyne looks over her shoulder at him, uncharacteristically hesitant, “… take care of him?”

It’s nostalgic, almost, the way she’s being so openly unguarded here. A throwback to days long since past. And he thinks about telling her that he always does. That it doesn’t matter how tall Papyrus gets, or how old, or how accomplished—in the end, Papyrus will always be his little brother; his only family. He would stare down the worst horrors imaginable if it meant keeping him safe.

He doesn’t actually say any of that though.

“Careful, Captain,” he drawls instead, “Alphys might get jealous.”

He can see her flush hotly even from the distance between them.

“ _Fuck you._ ” She seethes, vehement, slamming the door shut so hard on her way out that it jostles the entire wall.

The whole thing just makes Sans laugh, soul feeling light and unbothered.

“Was that Undyne?” Calls a voice from distantly behind him.

He turns around to see Papyrus standing at the top of the stairs, red scarf clutched tightly in hand and a questioning look on his face. A real, genuine smile stretches onto his face at the sight of his brother standing there looking no worse for wear.

“You just missed her, bro.”

“What did she want?” Papyrus asks, frowning to himself as he makes his way down the stairs.

“Seems like you must’ve impressed her,” he says, “She said to tell you that you’ll be officially in charge of keeping Snowdin in order from now on.”

Papyrus looks thunderstruck, freezing at the bottom step with one hand gripping tight at the railing, “What…?”

Sans grins at him, bright and celebratory, “Congrats, Pap.”

And his sincerity must show on his face because Papyrus splits into a grin a moment later, eyelights practically sparkling with excitement, “I knew it! I _knew_ there was no way she could deny the impact my presence made!”

“She sure couldn’t, bro.”

“Sans,” His brother goes on with all his usual enthusiasm, “Do you know what this means?”

“That I’m about to get a raise for all my hard work and dedication towards the continued safety of Snowdin?”

“Get a—? What are you _talking_ about?”

“A raise,” he repeats, rocking casually back on his heels, “You’re my boss now, right? Pretty sure you have the authority to do that.”

Papyrus rolls his eyelights at him, “Maybe you can start by not being late to your shifts, and _then_ we can talk.”

“Aww, c’mon, Boss~”

“ _Anyways_ ,” his brother says, ignoring his snickering entirely, “What I’m saying is that this is just a stepping stone!”

“A stepping stone to what, exactly?”

“If I can show Undyne that my methods to curtail crimes work just as well as any others currently employed by the Guard, I’d be able to revolutionize the way justice in the Underground works.”

“Heh, wow,” Sans says, blown away yet again by how incredible his brother is, “You had this all thought out, huh?”

“Of course!” Papyrus puffs out his chest, “No detail is too small for the Great and Terrible Papyrus!”

“Terrible?”

“I have an image to maintain, Sans.”

“Right, of course.” He grins, “Oh, and by the way—Undyne said that you can keep wearing the knock-off outfit I made for you till she sends you an official one.”

Papyrus blinks at him, “She’s… replacing it…?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “Gonna give you something a little better than my shoddy workmanship to show off during your patrols.”

His brother gets a funny look on his face at that, and fidgets a little in place. If Sans didn’t know any better, he’d say Papyrus looked a little put off by the idea. In any case, his brother grips the red scarf he’d been clutching even tighter in his hands.

“Whatchu got there, Boss?”

And here, his brother blushes, the red of his magic casting bright over his cheekbones as he toys with the fabric in his hands. He mutters something under his breath and Sans strains to hear it, “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said I accidentally tore it,” Papyrus repeats, a little louder this time, “I got too heated in my debate with Undyne and it ended up taking the brunt of the damage from one of her attacks.”

“Huh,” Sans says, tactfully not pointing out that most debates don’t come down to combat, “That’s too bad.”

Papyrus gives him a pointed look.

“… what?”

His brother flushes brighter and all but shoves the bundle of fabric and steel at him, pushing it into his arms, “Fix it!”

“ _Fix it?_ What for??”

“So that I can _wear it_ , obviously!!”

Sans stares at him, reflexively flexing his phalanges in the fabric, “But… what about your new armour?”

“There’s still time until it comes,” Papyrus says, crossing his arms across his chest and avoiding eye contact, “Besides… even _when_ it arrives, I’m sure adjustments and embellishments will be in order. It’s only fitting that someone as great as I have personalized gear.”

And Papyrus doesn’t have to say anything more than that for Sans to hear the unspoken appreciation in his words.

“Alright, Pap,” he smiles, running his thumbs over the small tears in the worn, red cloth, “Whatever you want.”

“Good,” his brother nods, a dusting of pink still yet to fade from his face, “Now that that’s settled—mind telling me why there’s leftovers from Grillby’s and an entire milkshake spilled onto our floor?”

With a start, Sans whips his head back around to the entryway. Sure enough, there’s a toppled over drink container leaking milkshake all over a take-out bag from Grillby’s. Bits and pieces of his burger and fires have also escaped, scattering across the carpet. It seems that in his haste to make sure Papyrus was alright when he got home, he’d _literally_ dropped everything to get to him as fast as possible.

“Oh... heh, well, there’s actually a funny story about that.”

Papyrus shakes his head, both miffed and unmistakeably fond, “Strange how that always seems to be the case with you.”

“You know me and jokes, Boss,” he pauses to grab his brother’s attention, winks as he continues, “I gotta _milk_ ‘em for all they’re worth.”

Papyrus groans.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we can see Sans falling into the trap of giving his brother an ironic nickname, not realising that it's gonna stick and he'll end up calling Papyrus 'Boss' constantly. (I've made the ironic nickname mistake with my own brother and it's both hilarious and also sort of makes me want to go back in time and warn myself about my act of sheer folly. But. Alas.)
> 
> Oh, and also!! Shoutout to [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10394019/chapters/22952151) by tealmoon, because I couldn't stop imagining UF!Pap in dresses afterwards~ The bit about Undyne's dress was my little nod to it because I like to think Sans would totally be down for making Pap pretty clothes if that's what his brother really wanted. ;u;
> 
> In any case, this chapter was super heavy on headcanons but I was really pleased with the way it turned out. :') I hope that it was worth the wait!! <3 
> 
> Till next time~


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